


Raw Nerves, An Inflammatory Book, and Slow Advancement

by Diary



Category: The Halcyon (TV)
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Late Night Conversations, Male Friendship, POV Adil Joshi, Pre-Season/Series 01, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:28:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29466510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diary/pseuds/Diary
Summary: Pre-series. During a party at the Halcyon, Adil reflects on the potential upcoming war and gets into a discussion with the youngest Hamilton. Afterwards, he has a chat with Mr Garlad. Complete.Excerpt: Almost running away with the coffee and book, the youngest Mister Hamilton finds a secluded corner where, hopefully, his family and bartenders who disagree his characterisation of Adolf Hitler (though, he’s not sure if he actually does disagree with Mister Hamilton or not) won’t bother him anymore.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Raw Nerves, An Inflammatory Book, and Slow Advancement

Adil’s read that being a good bartender means never judging the clientele.

He’s hoping, if he can keep anyone from knowing how much he’s judging this room full of people, that’ll do. Mr Garland is desperate due to three of the staff quitting, and this is the only reason he’s been permitted to make the drinks tonight rather than simply take orders and serve.

Such extravagance, he can’t help but think.

It’s not precisely jealousy running through him. He doesn’t want all _this_. But he’d like it if he could afford an icebox, if his rent didn’t make his food budget significantly smaller than his stomach appreciates, if he didn’t pass people every day with even less, people he truly can’t do anything to help. Occasionally, he can give a bit of money, some food, a blanket or some clothing, but it isn’t enough, he knows.

There will likely be a war soon, and these people drink and dance and barely, if at all, take the time to say “thank you” for the people who make it so easy and safe for them to do such things.

At least, the youngest of the family owning the hotel, Mister Hamilton, is a good tipper, even if he is almost unbearably snappy in ordering. The older Mister Hamilton, someday to be a Lord, is almost genuinely friendly, though, he knows he’s never truly been seen by the man; Miss Garland, on the other hand, staff or not, she’s made the affable, someday Lord into a bumbling boy with stars in his eyes.

He wishes he could make someone like this, but he knows the reality of things. When he fancies someone, at most, he’ll be allowed to know them carnally. Nothing further. No one is going to risk much for an Indian, not even other Indians, not in this country.

Don’t wince, he hears in his head, and a split second later, Lord Hamilton’s grating voice fills the room.

Hoping he didn’t wince, he looks around for anyone who might need a refill.

The man’s sons are fine, really, for all he might have minor gripes about them in the privacy of his own head.

Lord Hamilton, however, is loud, crude in a way that no one would even pretend was polite if not for his money and titles, and he treats most of the staff as less than dirt unless they get on his bad side. Then, he’s cruel and petty, almost sadistic.

Lady Hamilton, if it weren’t for the fact her sons were twins, he might privately wonder if they were both the product of her husband, but no one could ever deny Mister Hamilton is _her_ son. Her voice brings to mind icicles when she places an order, though, often, she’ll simply signal to have her husband or one of her sons order for her.

He hears, “I’ll- be over here,” and he watches as, practically clutching a book in his hands, Mister Hamilton scurries over to the bar.

Lady Hamilton and her oldest son both look slightly concerned, but of course, they don’t do anything.

Lord Hamilton looks outright contemptuous before going back to laughing with his friends.

Starting to make Mister Hamilton’s drink, he wishes he knew if he should say something or not. He likes talking to people, and sometimes, this is good.

Sometimes, this results in guests complaining to Mr Garland about the presumptuous, coloured waiter, and ‘coloured’ isn’t always the word, the words, they use; it’s a bit odd of a descriptor, in his opinion, but it’s also the tamest out of all these words.

He sets the drink down, and almost resembling a rabbit, Mister Hamilton’s eyes dart up. If he had to guess, surprise is behind them, and this puzzles him. Mister Hamilton might be used to being somewhat ignored by his peers, but does he think a member of the staff ever could?

Perhaps, he thinks, approaching was a bad idea.

However, letting out a quiet, “Thank you,” Mister Hamilton sips the drink, and he lets a little bit of relief settle.

“After this, some coffee.”

“Yes, Mister Hamilton.”

He gets a clear look at the book, and before he can even truly take it in, Mister Hamilton is hiding it, and his voice is a little too loud when he says, “I don’t support the Germans!”

Thankfully, aside from the other Hamiltons, no one seems to be paying any attention.

“It’s not my business whether you do or not, Mister Hamilton,” this has to be said, but he quickly continues, “but I also don’t think reading a book necessarily means agreeing with the author or even the contents in it. I’m aware it’s satire, but I wouldn’t want those who don’t understand it to think I agreed with a certain Modest Proposal made by Mister Jonathan Swift.”

He knows Mister Hamilton doesn’t mean to laugh; it’s the alcohol and frayed nerves and, probably, some relief.

Still, it’s nice to hear. To see. Mister Hamilton, it turns out, has a beautiful laugh and even more beautiful smile.

“I, um, couldn’t talk in that regard. I read it when I was too young to grasp that it was satire.”

“Somehow, I doubt you agreed with it then,” he says.

Letting out a shaky breath, Mister Hamilton brings the book back up. “We’ll be at war with them soon. And we should be. Reading this has made that clear to me.”

He agrees, but good bartenders don’t have potentially controversial political opinions. There are camps in Germany, he’s heard, and many innocent people are being placed within them without trial. Many of these people are being killed.

Agreeing doesn’t mean he doesn’t pray everything can get better without war. All these people in here, the rich ladies and gentleman, likely won’t lose much, but everyone else will suffer greatly if war comes.

His youngest sister is only ten, soon to be eleven, and he desperately hopes she’ll be able to grow up in a time of peace.

“Have you read it?” Sharp brown eyes that might have a bit of softness lurking in them regard him curiously.

“Yes, Mister Hamilton. This Adolf Hitler certainly has a strong personality.”

He’d thought this was a safe comment, after all, everyone is always talking about how strong the personality of Mr (Sir?) Churchill is in tones both admiring and contemptuous, but seeing Mister Hamilton’s face scrunch up, he realises it wasn’t.

“I’m glad you can recognise satire, at least,” is the churlish reply.

Thankfully, another person comes over to the bar.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mister Hamilton.”

He serves some others, and when the coffee is ready- right, there’s no one else really to deliver it.

“I should apologise.”

“I doubt you’ve done anything to warrant the need for that, Mister Hamilton.” If he were petty, he’d add a shade too little of milk, but if Mister Hamilton is petty, he could possibly have him fired for this, and besides, he knows how to make a cup of coffee to the youngest Hamilton’s satisfaction, and deliberately not giving something his best is something he was taught young not to do unless it’s necessary.

Admittedly, the urge itself is petty, but-

“I just don’t understand why everyone is so charmed or, if not charmed- strong personality, strong in convictions, always bloody ‘strong’ something. I’d say he has an artist’s temperament, but then, I have a respect for the arts. We’re not even at war, not yet, but everything is about war when it comes to him. He’s petty, rambling, and I don’t know much about military strategy, but I have my doubts he does, either. How does a man like that come into power?”

From what he’s gathered, Mister Hitler has made powerful friends, and these friends are helping him disappear anyone who might threaten his rising power.

The swastika flashes through his mind, and he tries his best to put his sadness, bitterness, and confusion away. His grandmother had that symbol painted on her house and on the walls within. One of his elder cousins wore a beautiful swastika necklace at her wedding, and he remembers the way it moved as she danced.

Now, a similar symbol, the numbers of dots and their placement differentiate what they have from what he knows, are on German flags and soldiers’ armbands. The Roma people, the Jews, many of the sick, criminals, many of whom likely didn’t do anything as bad as murder or rape, are being rounded up by men wearing that symbol.

“Life is mysterious, Mister Hamilton. Sometimes, a person manages to obtain power despite everything pointing to the fact they shouldn’t be able to. I’ve never heard one of his speeches, but I’ve heard he captivates the Germans when he gives them at his rallies. A strong personality might not be clear in his writings, but if a person talks enough, they’re going to come across people who listen. It seems, unfortunately, many of the people listening either aren’t coming to the conclusions you are or simply want the world he paints with his words.”

‘Thunderstruck’ is much politer than ‘dumbstruck’, he’s been told, but until now, he’s never realised a person could look the former without coming across as the latter.

Mister Hamilton will likely never come across as dumb to anyone, but until now, he’s never seen such an unconcealed look of surprised, almost incomprehension, on any Hamilton’s face, as if something powerful has struck the youngest Hamilton.

He never thought he’d see a Hamilton with such a look at all.

“Right, um, but still- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take my frustrations out on you.”

It’d be a nice apology, he reflects, if he could openly agree with it.

“I’ve seen men get into fist fights over literary disagreements. Your disagreement with me was infinitely more civilised, Mister Hamilton.”

“I’m going to-” Almost running away with the coffee and book, the youngest Mister Hamilton finds a secluded corner where, hopefully, his family and bartenders who disagree his characterisation of Adolf Hitler (though, he’s not sure if he actually does disagree with Mister Hamilton or not) won’t bother him anymore.

...

He tries to make sure his shoulders don’t tense when Mr Garland comes in.

Making a drink, he hands it over before going back to cleaning.

“You did well tonight, Mister Joshi.”

“Thank you, Mr Garland.”

“Especially with our Master Hamilton,” Mr Garland continues. “It’s better when he can stay at university. But tonight, he was much calmer than usual.”

Unease fills him at the lack of knowledge of how to properly respond.

On the one hand, he wouldn’t exactly characterise Mister Hamilton as completely calm, but he finds he doesn’t agree with Mr Garland’s implications. If anyone needed to be calmer, it was Lord Hamilton.

A good comparison, he thinks, is: Mister Hamilton was an exposed nerve, but as long as no one metaphorically touched him, he was content to sip his drink, read his book, and allow everyone to dance, laugh, and be blissfully careless about the likely approaching war.

Whereas, Lord Hamilton went about all night trying to touch the nerves of others, especially his son.

“At least, Lady Hamilton didn’t invite any young ladies on behalf of him.” Mr Garland hands him the glass back. “No more for me. That’s when things truly get uncomfortable for everyone. Poor boy, I’m not sure he’ll ever find a wife for all his mother’s attempts to help him.”

“I’ll try my very best to ensure any guests of his have no cause to complain of this establishment, regardless of how well she does or doesn’t find Mister Hamilton.”

Mr Garland laughs, but it’s a kind, gentle laugh. “I think you might be right about being ready for more responsibilities, Mister Joshi.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It’s-” Mr Garland hesitates, and he’s certainly seen soft looks on Mr Garland’s face before, especially when his daughter is anywhere near, but he’s never had Mr Garland look at him so gently before. “It’s not easy, Adil. I know you’re a strong person. You’ve dealt with things no man should be expected to with grace,” and Mr Garland practically scoffs over the word, “as it’s so politely characterised. But it’ll only get worse. The higher the rise, the greater the fall, as they say.”

Soon after he first started working at the Halcyon, Mr Garland asked about him trying to get aid to go to university, why he didn’t try to get a secretarial position in a respectable business, why he wasn’t employed in a library.

If he’d remembered earlier, with Mister Hamilton, how talking to one’s potential future employer about one’s opinion on certain newspaper articles had gone for him…

He likes talking too much, at times, but still, he’s learning. Interesting things can be gleaned when one is polite and quiet.

Part of him suspects Mister Hamilton grasps this, too, but unlike him, Mister Hamilton’s difficulty doesn’t lie in enjoying talking to others. No, Mister Hamilton seems to care if people believe false things, and there’s some innate duty within him to try to correct this.

He must never, ever express the fact: For all Mister Hamilton is a young, healthy, rich man, he has even less chance than the cocktail waiter who serves him of changing most of what he believes are the erroneous beliefs of society.

Turning his attention back to Mr Garland, he considers what to say.

The pay is part of why he’s here. Even without the tips, the wages are better than he could get most other places, and his family counts on the money he’s able to send to them.

However, it’s not the only reason.

“I like making drinks, and I like being around people. Almost all the guests here are rich, often titled, but there are all different sorts of people who pass through. I fit in well with the other staff here, and though some customers are challenging, certainly, I take pride in making people happy and comfortable.”

“Well, then.” Mr Garland smiles. “If you’re interested, I have some more shifts available that need filling. I can’t give a raise in pay right now, but perhaps, soon.”

“When’s the next shift you need me?”


End file.
